


As Simple As That

by dustbunnyprophet



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Awkwardness, Day 7, First Kiss, Fluff, Getting Together, JJStyleWeek, Light Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-13
Updated: 2017-07-13
Packaged: 2018-12-01 20:32:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11494218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dustbunnyprophet/pseuds/dustbunnyprophet
Summary: Lukewarm coffee and a snowy afternoon. From awkward conversations to something else entirely. As simple as that.A JJBek fic.JJStyle Week 2017, Day 7 - Free





	As Simple As That

It was snowing in Vancouver. The streets were covered in an unusually thick mantle of snow, which kept growing as the lazy flakes slowly fell, catching on the large window of the cafe. Jean watched them slide down as they slowly melted against the warmer glass. There was slush on the pavement, and piles of dirty snow on the sides, slowly becoming immaculate as the fresh snow covered it. The coffee he had ordered was getting cold, but he kept his eyes fixed on the street outside.

He had arrived in Vancouver the evening before. They had two more days before the official practices began, but Jean always came slightly earlier at the competitions. He liked to get the feel of the city, even if he was quite familiar with it, like he was with Vancouver. Over the years he had learned that it was easier to get into the right mindset for skating when he was not jet lagged and cranky from travelling. 

The only downside of so much free time was the slow nipping of boredom at the edges of his thoughts. The weather made it impossible for him to go sightseeing, and there were only so many things he could do to make the time pass. Especially since he was entirely alone.

Not that his fellow competitors were not in Vancouver. More than half of them had already arrived, but he was not friendly enough with any of them to really hope to be able to spend time with them. 

Jean’s lips curled in a grimace, and he took a sip of his already lukewarm coffee. It was one of his sore spots: his fellow competitors. Because for all that Jean smiled and joked with them, he was not stupid. He saw the way they treated him. The way they  _ always  _ brushed him off, and how everyone seemed to be too busy to spend time with him. 

Jean noticed it all, but he never let his smile fall off his face. It hurt enough to know he was not wanted. What would be the point in showing them just how much?

Shaking his head, he remembered how Isabella used to be furious about it. 

She would rant and complain about it, telling him he was too good for them, it was their loss if they didn’t want him around. That Jean had enough friends at home, he didn’t need his fellow skaters. He was better off without them, she would say. Even now, years after Isabella stopped being part of his life Jean could imagine it with perfect accuracy, the tone of her voice, the exact words, the flash of rightful anger in her blue eyes. It was perhaps the most vivid impression Izzy had left behind.

It was funny how after years of dating, after being engaged, after nearly getting married the one thing which he remembered the best about her was the way she would defend him. His knight on a white horse. He had told her this once and she had laughed loudly, making a joke about her favourite show, saying that if he was King JJ then she was his Kingsguard. Jean had never gotten around to watch the series she was referencing. It was of the many things he had postponed, over and over, until at some point they simply vanished from his future plans.

The sky outside was growing darker as the snow starting falling in earnest, shrouding the view from the cafè window into a curtain of white and greys. There was something morose about the sight. Or maybe Jean was projecting his own mood onto the weather. He was feeling quite low at the moment. Maybe it was the boredom, maybe it was sunlight he missed dearly, but the most likely culprit were his own thoughts. 

He sighed, looking at the dwindling foam of his latte, trying to focus on the sounds surrounding him and stop feeling sorry for himself. The cafè was moderately full, and the buzzing of voices mingled with the sounds of the steam used to make the coffee foam. There was a faint music playing in the background, barely audible. A soft tune matching the white snow piling outside, twirling as the gusts of wind carried it across the winter air. 

The waning afternoon light made the flakes stark in contrast with the darkening street. And the window Jean stared at slowly became more mirror like. The outline of the tables across from him, of the people sitting, chatting, typing on their laptops, sipping their coffees, grew more vivid the longer he looked at them. Blurs of colour turning sharper, and yet never clear enough to be able to see the outline of their faces. Even his own was slightly out of focus as the reflections from the double glass did not perfectly overlap. 

He had been in the midst of trying to determine whether he looked as blue as he felt when the shape of a body suddenly entered the background of his reflection, lingering for a moment. Jean turned his head, eyebrows knitted into a frown. 

Only to suddenly rise under his fringe.

“Otabek?” he exclaimed, looking at the sullen looking Kazakh skater who was standing a foot away from his table.

“Leroy” he said in lieu of a greeting, and Jean blinked. 

In any normal circumstance Jean would not have been terribly surprised at having a familiar face hovering by his table. Basic manners would had him ask Altin to join him, since he  _ was  _ desperate for company. But this was the same fellow skater who had rejected all of his invites in the past years. It would have been an exercise in futility to invite him to sit at his table. Especially since there were a couple of empty ones in the establishment.

Jean’s stream of consciousness was abruptly interrupted by the light scraping of a chair as the Kazakh silently invited himself at his table, putting his coffee across from Jean’s, and sitting down, to Jean’s complete astonishment.

He blinked several times, trying to get his bearings back. 

Altin sat without a care in the world, taking a sip of his coffee like it was the most normal occurrence in the world for the two of them to sit in a cafè spending time together. Not that he minded. The kazakh had always been someone he had been curious to get to know, but the younger skater’s forbidding attitude had made it virtually impossible.

A very long minute passed. Or maybe it was an hour, Jean was not sure. But a thick silence had descended above their table, and Jean felt the urge to break it. He opened his mouth, unsure what to say.

“Erm… were you at the rink?” he asked him, going with the first thing that popped in his mind.

“I was.” Altin replied, and Jean expected him to continue speaking, but he was not elaborating further. Right, the Kazakh had never been very talkative. He remembered well from the time back in Juniors when they had trained together. Besides Jean  _ had  _ asked the obvious thing. The establishment they were in was close enough to the rink they were using for unofficial practice, and Jean himself had come there after spending a couple of hours at the rink.

Another long lapse of silence ensued, and Jean didn’t know if it was just him that found it uncomfortable. Maybe Altin was perfectly okay sitting there without a single facial muscle doing as much as a twitch. Well, Jean did  _ not _ do good with prolonged silences. So he tried again

“I saw your routines on youtube.” he told Altin, his voice trailing, inviting him to continue. But Otabek just nodded, adding a curt

“Me too.” 

And Jean was ready to give up. Was it even possible to hold a conversation with the Kazakh? Plisetsky seemed to be able to, but then again the Russian Punk was a category onto his own. Whatever black magic Yuri used to make him talk was completely lost to him.

He was about to sigh in defeat when, to Jean’s complete astonishment, Altin spoke.

“It was strange not competing against you in the qualifiers this season.” he said with a minute knitting of his eyebrows that Jean translated as a thoughtful expression. It was hard to tell with how little Altin allowed his face to show.

“Yeah, it’s been awhile since that happened.” Jean agreed said with a smile “When was it the last tim!e? Four years ago?”

“Yura’s senior debut, yes.” Otabek said with a nod.

“How is Plisetsky?” Jean asked “I haven’t seen the Russians in the hotel yet.”

“They will arrive tomorrow morning.” Otabek informed him, not elaborating further.

They were falling into awkward silence once again, and Jean took another sip of his now cold coffee, trying to regroup. He had been sad because he had no company, and now that he  _ did  _ have it, he had no idea what to talk about. He would have laughed at himself if it wouldn’t have make him seem completely crazy in the eyes of the entirely stoic Kazakh.

Was he even capable of smiling, Jean wondered, looking at the formica of the table under his cup of coffee. Then, shaking his head at his own musings he shifted his gaze back on the other skater. Who was looking at him with a proper frown, and Jean found his eyes widening on reflex. 

He had never seen Altin express something so clearly on his face.

“You’re silent.” the Kazakh observed, tilting his head slightly, clearly puzzled “It’s odd.”

And Jean let out a laugh, feeling his lips pull in a large grin.

“Sorry I was overthinking, I guess.” he admitted, and then he  _ finally  _ remembered they did have one more thing in common other than figure skating, so still grinning he asked “You still moonlight as a DJ?”

“Yes, I do.” Altin replied, and was that a small smile? 

Jean didn’t have much time to contemplate that, because all of a sudden, the clipped, expressionless Kazakh sitting in front of him was speaking, his brown eyes dancing as he talked about the latest pieces he had remixed. And Jean’s smile only grew, as they discussed the merits of one genre rather than the other. He learned the Kazakh had used to play the guitar before he decided remixing was more fun. 

“I still play it sometimes.” he told him, and Jean beamed.

“I tried learning, but I figured I get enough callouses with skating, no need to add to them.” Jean told him with a grin, and the Kazakh actually  _ chuckled.  _ It was hard to think he had been having such a bad day only an hour before when his cheeks were almost sore with how much he was grinning.

They kept talking about music, and Jean had been blessed with the sight of at least half a dozen genuine smiles, a couple of eyerolls, and an overall array of facial expressions he had not been able to see in all the years he had known Otabek Altin. And it made a warm feeling spread under his breastbone. It was truly precious seeing those dark eyes shine in mirth, or the small curl of his lips when he smiled, the way his hands moved in the rare moment he gesticulated.  

Jean had been so engrossed in their discussion that he missed the moment the greyness of the afternoon was swallowed by the orange of the street lamps, and the cafè’s customers started to slowly filter out. Only when one of the baristas come to politely inform they were closing did Jean realised just how long they had been sitting there.

With a heartfelt excuse from Jean and a short one from Otabek, they pulled their jackets on, and walked out of the door, Jean not really ready to brave the snowstorm that was still raging outside, but at the same time not really caring, because Otabek was still talking about music, and even if they had to speak louder with the scarves muffling their voices and the wind whipping them away, they kept chatting, laughing stupidly when Jean made a joke. Nearly doubling down with laughter when  _ Otabek  _ unexpectedly made one. 

“When I tell the press Otabek Altin has a sense of humour they’ll have a field day!” Jean exclaimed, practically shouting to be heard as they walked towards the hotel which was thankfully close enough to be reached by foot. 

“Go ahead.” Otabek told him dryly “They won’t believe you anyway.”

Jean laughed, grinning.

“You’re right!” he said.

There was something warm coiling inside him, that made him forget his cheeks were getting numb from the cold. And when the hotel loomed ahead of them he almost felt disappointed. His feet dragged forward, but he was not the only one. He noticed how Otabek had slowed down to a leisurely stroll even though his cheeks were crimson with the cold, and he shivered when a stronger gust of wind would blow towards them.

There was something about the sight that made his heart stutter. 

They came to a stop, and Jean looked at Otabek, not really sure why they were standing there, close enough to their hotel to be able to see the sliding doors opening and closing as people entered the lobby. It was freezing cold, and their breaths came out in small puffs of condensation. 

A silence had fallen over them, but unlike the previous ones there was no awkwardness to it, no visceral urge to fill it with words. There were just Otabek’s dark eyes looking at him, head slightly tilted to meet his gaze, and the ever increasing thrum of Jean’s heart, beating loudly in his ears.

And then Otabek was stepping forward, gloved hand reaching towards him, and Jean was already meeting him halfway, lowering his head. Their lips met. Warm, chapped, and right in the same way sneaking an arm around Otabek’s back and pulling him closer was.

His heart was trying to kick its way out of his chest, and they were both shivering in the cold, but Jean didn’t care. Because Otabek’s mouth was moving against his, and it was perfect, it was everything he had not known he had needed.

 


End file.
